


Grossière

by QueenCherry01



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/F, F/M, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Jack Crawford Being Jack Crawford, Jack Crawford Being an Asshole, M/M, Multi, Self-Harm, Someone Helps Will Graham
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2019-11-15 00:56:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18063491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenCherry01/pseuds/QueenCherry01
Summary: Edith Waston has spent her life searching for what everyone in life is searching for - someone who understands her or at least tries too. While solving crimes for the FBI she meets Dr. Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham. At first, they aren't all that interesting and then, later, might be too good to be true.It takes her too long to realize it's the opposite.





	1. Chapter 1

Propped up on a desk in front of thirty or so FBI students, it was understanding to say the least that Edith Watson would be a nervous wreck. Powerpoint slides above displayed the bodies of Amber Nash and Nicole Rice laying in their shallow graves, discovered days after their short-lived disappearance. Edith pushed her glasses further up her nose, hoping it would give her the look of a schooler instead of a woman on the verge of a mental breakdown.

“Both girls were found in this exact area, asphyxiation to be the cause of death. Now, I’ve given you the clues,”

A press of a button and the slide flipped. A wider shot of both girls and their graves.

“Location, time of disappearance and cause of death, to name a few. Now it’s you’re turn to figure out what happened and why. Tell me in your essays, that should be spelled checked, hopeful.” Edith finished, clicking off the projector with a dramatic finish.

She watched the students starting to pack up and leave, most of them either rolling their eyes or giving very heavy sighs. Strict marking for students was never liked by anyone. Edith considered herself lucky that she had no friends. No proper friends.

Amidst the leaving students, Jack Crawford strode into the room, heading straight for Edith’s way with the aura of sheer smugness or what could be considered confidence.

‘People should be leaving,’ Edith thought, keeping her head down as she stuffed her laptop into her messenger bag. ‘Not entering’.

She slide down her glasses down her nose, trying to focus on the rims and not the thundering steps of Crawford.

"I'm Special Agent Jack Crawford," he said, leaning up against her desk. Edith pulled the sleeves of her black sweater down further over her knuckles, draping her messenger bag over her shoulder, continuing to stare the rims. She did the decent thing and looked up at Crawford for the briefest of seconds before she looked away. Eye contact had never been her thing.

"We've met." Edith said.

"Yes. We had a disagreement when we opened up the museum."

Edith sighed. "I disagreed with what you named it.”

"The, uh, Evil Minds’ Research Museum."

"Sounds stupid, to say the least.”

Edith started to move around Crawford, until he moved too, blocking Edith’s way of escape. She glared at him, now looking up to his face, gripping her bag tighter. He, in turn, looked down to the pile of essay in her hands.

"I see you've hitched your horse to a teaching post. And I also understand it's difficult for you to social -"

“That's an understatement." Edith cut him off. "What do you want?"

There was that feeling again, uncurling in her, wanting to be released.

‘Not here, please not here’ she thought, curling her hands in fists until she felt the pain, long nails cutting into her palms. ‘Better than nothing.’

"Can I borrow your imagination?"

 

She buried herself in the teaching, so she wouldn't be pulled back into the world that Crawford was in no doubt about to pull her back into again. It's safer to study killers from photographs and reports. Fresh scenes are different. Tough. Raw. Real.

Even though it's a question, Edith knows she can’t say no. She's never been allowed to say no.

 

They both walked outside of the academy, in between the busting students and under the scorching heat of the sun. Edith was boiling in her all black sweater, jeans, and boots but she was used to it. Her bag swung with each step she made in trying to keep up with Crawford’s large ones.

"Eight girls abducted from eight different Minnesota campuses, all in the last eight months." Crawford explained.

"I thought there was only seven?" She questioned, out of breath.

"There were," Crawford confirmed. They walk up the stone steps.

"When did you tag the eighth?"

"About ten minutes ago, before I walked into yours and Grahams lecture hall."

"Will Graham?" Edith stopped in her tracks, Crawford turning to look at her, a few steps ahead.

"Yes, Will Graham. Why, something important about him?"

“No, nothing.” She started walking, Crawford leading the way again.

It was odd hearing that name that she had often heard negatively around in the academic circles. But the world was full of wonders, so it seemed.

"You're calling them abductions because you don't have any bodies?"

"No bodies, no parts of bodies, nothing that comes out of bodies. Nothing." Crawford answered, frustrated. Of course, they could find anything, it just meant that the killer was smarter. "All of them abducted on a Friday, so they wouldn't be reported until Monday."

"They're covering their tracks then. Needs the weekend to cover them."

They entered the main building of the Academy, cold air condition hitting the back of Edith's neck. They had been walking forever and Edith sighed, enjoying the coldness that was now sending chills along her body.

Crawford, ever the gentleman, opened a door for her. Edith entered, Crawford behind her, as she took in the giant map board with red thread connecting to the photos of the dead girls on opposite sides of the map and the man, Will Graham, standing in front of it all. Crawford moved past Will Graham, taking one of the photos down and handing it to Edith.

"Number eight?" She asked, glancing at the photo. A girl smiled back at her looking just the picture of happy and carefree. Just a typical teenager.

 "Elise Nichols." Graham spoke up, quiet but thoughtful. Edith nodded, pining the photo back on the board.

"Disappeared on Friday. Was supposed to house sit for her parents over the weekend, feed the cat. She never made it home." Crawford said, quietly observing both Edith and Will. Edith leaned in closer at the board, her eyes darting to and from each photo.

"They're all very, um, similar. A lot of the same." Edith said.

"Same hair colour, same eye colour. Roughly the same age. Same height, same weight. So, what is it about all of these girls?" Crawford leaned on the desk in the middle of the room, big and imposing.

"It's not about all of these girls. It's just about one of them." Will spoke, earning a glance from Edith. "He is like Willy Wonka. Every girl he takes is like a candy bar."

"Then, hidden amongst all of those candy bars is the one true victim – which, if we follow through with your metaphor - is the golden ticket." Edith finished.

"So, is he warming up for his golden ticket, or just reliving whatever he did to her?" Crawford asked.

’Want’s answer badly,’ Edith thought ‘or the families do.’

"The golden ticket wouldn't be the first taken, and she wouldn't be the last," Will said. "He would, um, hide how special she was. I mean, I would. Wouldn't you?"

Edith moved towards the door, gripping onto the sleeves of her jumper, eyeing Will as he quickly gathered his bag, mirroring her movements towards the door.

"I want you two to get closer to this." Crawford said, making both Will and Edith pause. Edith started to fumble with the handle of her bag, her thigh beginning to itch. She started to trace lines on her thigh, averting her eyes from Crawford’s ones.

"No." They both said at the same time. Edith raised her hand to her eyes, rubbing them.

"You have Heimlich at Harvard and Bloom at Georgetown. They do the same thing as I do." Will replied.

Edith remained silent. Sometimes it was easier to slip back into the back of the room and remain unseen.

"You both have a very specific way of thinking." Crawford said, his eyes swirling around to lock onto Edith. Cursing to herself, she scratched the back of her hand, as she felt the eyes of both Crawford and Will on her.

"There have been many discussions on the way I think," Edith said sharply. "I don't want to add to them."

"You make jumps that you both can't explain Edith, Will.”

"No, no," Edith shook her head. "The evidence explains it all."

 "Then help me find some evidence."

Edith and Will looked at each other. Will finally looked back to Crawford as Edith crossed her arms over her chest.

Will was the one to answer. "This may require me to be sociable."

 

 

They were in the Nichols' house in a few hours. Both Mrs. and Mr. Nichols sat at the family dining table, each of them nursing a mug of coffee. Both had that look in their eyes, that sad long-lost look. Both of them were slouching.

"She could've gone off by herself." Mr Nichols was mumbling. "'She ... she was very interior young women. She didn't like living in her dorm. I could see how the pressure of school might have gotten to her. She likes trains. Maybe she just got on a train and - "

 "She looks like the other girls." Mrs Nichols cut of her husband from his rambling. Edith stood to the furthest corner of the room, looking at the stereotypical family photos displayed on the cream coloured walls. Vaguely, they reminded Edith of her own family photos in her mother’s house. All posed and posed, like dolls.

Crawford nodded. "Yes, she fits the profile."

"Could Elise still be alive?" Mr Nichols asked.

"We simply have no way of knowing." Crawford answered.

Both Mrs. and Mr. Nichols were every, white American missing child-parent persona. But these emotions wouldn’t help. They would hinder the process. The grief is loud, distracting. It would not help find their daughter's killer.

"How's the cat?" Will asked, awkwardly breaking the small silence that had settled. Edith could practically feel the sigh from Crawford.

"What?" Mr Nichols asked.

"The cat? Elsie was supposed to feed it. Was the cat weird when you came home? Must’ve been hungry, if it didn't eat over the weekend." Will said.

 "I ... I didn't notice."

Will sent a look at Crawford and Edith.

"Could you give us a moment?" Crawford said and they walked over to the door frame, far away from the couple.

"He ... he took her from here." Will said, closing his eyes.

Edith could feel her headache even more, puzzle pieces slotting in place. ‘Jesus fucking Christ’ she thought.

"She got on a train, she came home, fed the cat. He took her from here." Will finished in a hushed voice. Crawford sighed, looking at the couple, his phone being held up to his ear as he spoke into it.

"The Nichols house is a crime scene. I need ERT immediately. I want Zeller, Katz and Jimmy Price. Yes, and a photographer."

He didn't lower his voice.

"Why is it now a crime scene?" Mr Nichols asked. Crawford didn't answer, leaving both Will and Edith to manage the man. The asshole.

They turned around to face the couple. "Can we see your daughter's room?" Will asked.

"Police were there this morning." Mr Nichols objected.

 

The cat was clawing the door of Elise Nichols room. Thoughts were thrown and tossed in Edith's mind. Mr Nichols went to open the door, only for Will to stop him.

"No - I'll get that. Mr Nichols, please put your hands in your pockets and avoid touching anything."

"But you've been in and out of here all day." Mr Nichols said.  

"I feel it helps," Edith sighed, eyes turning to her. "You can hold the cat."

Mr Nichols reluctantly picked up the cat and Will opened to door.

Only, Elise Nichols's room isn't empty.

Posed in the bed, blanket tucked around her like she's just been put to sleep, was Elise Nichols' body sleeping.

Dead.

 

 

Edith, Will, and Crawford were left alone in the room as police officers left one by one.

"When you’re ready to talk, you talk. If you don't feel like it, you don't talk. We be downstairs. You let me know when you're ready for us to come in." Jack said. He gave Edith a look and they both walked out of the room.

She knew the questioning was coming before he even opened his mouth. “It’s a man, first of all. With a relationship.”

“What makes you say that?” Crawford demanded.

Edith rubbed her eyes as she spoke. “He posed her dead body back in bed. It’s obviously some form of apology. He cared for the girl then, enough to feel regret.”

“He cared for the girl?” Crawford pulled a face, looking at her as if she was the killer.

“In some way!” Edith bust out, practically shaking with anger. “He loved her – and no Crawford, not in that way.”

Men always did equal love to sex. Men like Crawford did anyway. This wasn’t that love. Maybe Will would understand.

They heard a tump from the room and with Crawford leading, they made it back up to the room, finding Will standing in the center of the room, shaking as a woman, the fabric of her jumper suit pulling and wrinkling as she put a hand on her hip, looked over him. The tag on her jumpsuit displayed ‘Katz’.

"Now, you know you're not supposed to be in here." Crawford said, two men following behind him, entering the room and crowding around Elise Nichols’ body.

"I found antler velvet in two of the wounds, like she was gored. I was looking for velvet in the other wounds, but I was interrupted." The women explained, staring at Will and he avoided eye contact.

"Hold on, excuse me," one of the two men voiced, the tag on his jumpsuit displaying ‘Zeller’. "Look, deer and elk pin their prey, ok? They put all their weight in their anglers, try and suffocate their victim. That's how they would kill a fox or a coyote."

"All right. Elise Nichols was strangled, suffocated, her ribs broken." Crawford stated.

"Antler velvet is rich in nutrition. It promotes healing." Edith said. All eyes turned to look at her and she crossed her over her chest. "Our killer may have put it in there on purpose.”

"You think he was trying to heal her?" Crawford asked, clenching his jaw.

"He wanted to undo as much as he could, given that he'd already killed her." she explained further.

"He put her back where he found her." Crawford stressed.

"Whatever he did to the others, he couldn't do it to her, then."

"This is his golden ticket?" Crawford demanded.

Edith knew he wanted this over, but it wasn’t.  Not yet.

"No," Edith whispered, shaking her head. "This is an apology."

The team all looked over to her expectantly. Edith’s head throbbed viciously in response.

“Does anyone have any Aspirin?” Will’s voice cuts through, strained and quiet.

 

Edith unlocked her apartment door, taking off her shoes and coat, dumping them to the floor and falling onto the sofa, sighing. The whole murder of Elise Nichols was pounding in her head, all through the drive back home.

She needed a drink.

She got back up, walking into the kitchen and pouring herself a glass of bourbon, sipping from it as she moved into the bathroom, plugging the bath up and turning on the hot water tap, letting it fill. She put her glass on the side of the tub as she undressed, dimming the lights before getting in, staring up at the ceiling, her eyes tracing the cracks.

‘I feel myself,’ She thought. ‘when I’m in a hot bath’.

She knew there wasn’t a whole lot of things that a bath wouldn’t cure but Edith didn’t care. The longer she laid there, in the clear hot water, the purer she felt.

 

When she did get out at last, after drinking her bourbon and shampooing her hair, she wrapped herself in a big, soft towel, taking her time to let herself to have another bourbon and then collapsing on her bed, lulled by the wet purr of the air conditioner, falling asleep.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Warning:*  
> There is refence to self harm, so please skip if you don't want to read

Edith spent her lunch break in the women’s toilet, face submerged into a sink of cold water, squeezing her eyes shut. She spent half the night waking up from nightmares of Elise Nichols body hovering right over her or laying next to her, all bloody and white. The other half of the night was spent silently drinking, filling up an old Evian bottle of vodka.

‘What is he apologizing for?’ she thought, lifting her head back up and gasping, blinding reaching for the paper towel dispenser.

Just as she was whipping her face dry, resisting the urge to just throw up on the spot from the nightmares, the door to the women’s toilet slammed open and Crawford came storming in, a detected looking Will trailing behind him, like a puppy that had been told off.

“What are you doing in here?”

Edith turned toward them, leaning against the sink so much that it began to dig into her back. “I enjoy the smell of shit and piss.”

“Well, so did Will. We need to talk.”

He was interrupted by a soft gasp. Crawford rounded on a woman standing in the doorway in a trainee’s polo. “WHAT!?” He barked.

The trainee squeaked. And then vanished.

For a second Edith was sure she was going to burst into hysterical laughter, so much that she began to bite hard on her cheek, the taste of metal filling her mouth.

Crawford was staring down at her, hunched back against the sink. Will mirrored him in that detected, sad puppy look, keeping his eyes downcast.

“You respect my judgment, Edith?”

“Yes.” Edith sighed.

“Good, because we will stand a better chance of catching this guy with you in the saddle.”

She sighed more. “I’m in the saddle. But the direction is wrong.”

Crawford huffed and Will still kept his eyes downcast. She didn’t know which she hated more.

“I’ve never read - even heard - about this psychopath. Maybe he’s not even a psychopath – he’s definitely not insensitive or shallow.”

“You said this is an apology. What is he apologising for?” Crawford demeaned, his voice rising.

Edith griped the sink, letting it dig further into her back. He always wanted more. ‘I’m not some goddam circus animal.’ She thought.

“He feels bad.” She gritted out.

“Well then, feeling bad defeats the purpose of being a psychopath then, doesn’t it?”

“Of course!” Edith shouted.

“Then what kind of crazy is he?!” Crawford shouted back.

Silence ensured as Edith cover her eyes with her shaking hands, breathing in deeply as that itch started on her thigh again. Crawford needed answers. Needed them. Needed them. And she was going to give them to him, one way or another.

“When he couldn’t love her, he put her back where he killed her.”

“You think he loves these girls? There was no semen, no saliva. Elise Nichols died a virgin.” Crawford recoiled, disgusted as if she was the killer. Again.

“Not like that. He loves one of them, his golden ticket. And by association, he has some form of love for the others. He would disrespect them that way.” She paused. “He thinks that he’s killing them quickly and with mercy. They’re not truly suffering then.”

Now Crawford looked like he had won the lottery, if a small one. “Sensitive psychopath. Risked getting caught so he could Elise Nichols back into bed.” He nodded to himself like he was the one who had come to the conclusion himself.

“The next one, she’s going to be taken soon. One way or another, he knows he’s going to get caught.” Edith moved away from the sink, bumping shoulders with Crawford as she griped the doorknob. “You better be quick.”

And with that she left, trying to ignore the eyes of Will on her.

 

She pulled over the side of the road, Thank You by Led Zeppelin playing loud as she drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. She turned off the engine and leaned back, sighing. These roads were quiet with only a handful of cars driving past every few minutes. She reached for her bag in the passenger seat, pulling out her bottle, unscrewing the cap. She took big gulps of the vodka, closing her eyes at the slight burn along her throat.

The song came to its end and Edith opened her eyes. No one was around. Careful and with shaking hands, she took out a small razor from her purse, holding it up in the light, so the sun glittered off the metal. Her arm was steady when she started to trace horizontal lines along her upper arm.

Then she pressed down. Hard.

 

 The next day, they all stood around Elise Nichols body in the forensic lab. Edith was surprised she didn’t get lost on her way down, having never been down in the labs before. She stood next to Will at the back of the room, arms crossed, with the rest of the team crowding about Elise.

“Ok,” Price sighed. “tried her skin for prints, of course, nothing. We did get a hand spread off her neck.”

“Report say anything about nails?” Beverly asked.

“Fingernails were smudged when we too the scrapings.” Zeller said. “The scraping were from her own palms when she scratched them. Never scratched him.”

“Piece of metal is all we got.”

“We should be looking at plumbers, steamfitters, tool workers.” Edith said.

“Other injuries were probably but not conclusively post-mortem. So not gored.” Zeller continued.

“She has lots of piercings that look like they were caused by deer antlers. I didn't say the deer was responsible for putting them there.” Beverly argued back.

 

Edith began to tune them out, focusing on the eggshell darkness of the body-bag. She sighed, breathing deeply past the smell of Zeller’s deodorant and Beverly’s perfume. She watched the hazy-pale reflection of the dead girl’s skin against the plastic. It seemed to move, resolve into the girl, naked and bloody, suspended.

Antlers. Pierced through the ribs.

 

“She was mounted on them.” She whispered to herself.

“Like hooks.” Will continued, louder that the room fell abruptly silent. “She may have been bled.”

Zeller peered inside the girl’s body. “Her liver was removed. See that? He took it out, and then - yep, he put it back in.”

 “Why would he cut it out if he's just gonna sew it back in again?” Price asked as they all looked at each other, confused.

Edith felt her empty stomach clench.

“Something wrong with the meat?” came Will’s voice.

“She has liver cancer.” Zeller said, looking up to Will with some sort of disturbed awe.

Will only exhales, shakily. “He's, um he's eating them.”

 

On the drive back home, no music playing this time, Edith braked hard on an empty road, throwing open the car door, stumbling out and then vomiting onto the road.  She only got back inside the car when she stopped dry heaving, turning back around to stop off at the bar she saw on the way, drinking until she was practically shooed out by the owners. Then she spent the night in her car, waking every time she fell asleep in a sweating mess.

In the morning, she was vaguely aware of the smell of alcohol, sweat, and vomit on her.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Edith knew the moment she set foot in Jack’s office, she was fucked.

All the email had said was, “I’m bringing in an outside consultant. Come meet Dr Hannibal Lecter in my office.” Followed by the date and time.

Crawford was standing by his pinboard with a man. A very tall, very tailored, professional-type man. She sat next to Will, both of them facing Crawford’s desk.

“Tell me then, how many confessions?” The stranger asked. His voice was low, measured, cultured. He had a faint European accent. ‘Of course, he does’ Edith thought.

“A couple dozen yesterday, none with any details. Until this morning. Then everyone knew details. Some genius in Duluth P.D. took a picture of Elise Nichols body with their phone and shared it with a few close friends. Freddy Lounds ran it on TattleCrime.com." Jack took a seat behind the desk and clasped his hands as he leaned forward.

Edith glowered at her coffee.

“Tasteless.” Will said.

The man looks curiously at Will. “Do you have trouble with taste?”

"My thoughts are often not tasty."

Edith began to drink from her mug, keeping a close eye on the stranger. She could practically feel Crawford’s eyes trained on them, like watching some lab test. The itch began.

“Nor mine. No effective barriers.”  

“I build forts.”

“Associations come quickly.”

“So do forts.”

The stranger sat down, on Will’s side, pulling out a stoneware bottle. He inverted the lid to a cup and pours himself some coffee, beginning to drink, only to pause as he caught Edith’s eyes. She quickly adverted them, resting her chin on her knuckles, her head pounding from the alcohol-induced headache.

“Not fond of eye contact, are you?”

“Eyes are distracting,” Edith sighed. “you see too much, you don't see enough. So, yes, I try to avoid eyes whenever possible.”

The stranger was quiet for a moment, then he turned his head around so suddenly that Edith couldn’t help but look at him. The doctor leaned forward a bit more, farther into Edith’s personal space.

"I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind." His eyes were magnetic, some strange dark colour Edith couldn’t quite name. He turned to Will. “Your values and decency are present yet shocked that your associations, appalled by your dreams."

They both look over at Jack, angry and upset.

“Whose profile are you working on? Whose profile is he working on?” Will demanded. 

Dr Lecter did look genuinely apologetic. “I'm sorry, Will, Edith. Observing is what we do. I can't shut mine off any more than you can shut yours off.”

“Please, don't psychoanalyze me. You won't like me when I'm psychoanalyzed.“ Edith gathered her messenger bag, slamming her mug onto Crawford’s desk, letting coffee to spill. She hoped she dented the desk itself.

“Will. Edith.” Crawford scolds them but Edith shrugs him off.

Will snatched his blazer off the back of the chair and crossed the room in three long strides. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go give a lecture on psychoanalyzing.”

Edith followed him out of the door, refining from slamming it at the last second. She took a sharp turn to the women’s toilet as Will took the right, slaming close the cubicle door, sitting down on the toilet lid and pressing her hands into her eyes.

‘Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone’ is all she could think.

 

Crawford dragged her to Minnesota the next day, for another murder. Crawford told her it was the killer making up for Elise Nichols but the killer doesn’t leave bodies - that’s the whole point.

The body was mounted on a rack of antlers. There were crows hovering nearby. Had they been eating her before they got here?

“Stag head was reported stolen last night, about a mile from here.” Crawford said, standing next to her as Will over-looked the body in front of them. Price was taking some up-close shots of the raw edges of the mounted girl's flesh, Zeller chasing away some more ravens that threatened to settle on the body. Beverly, packing swabs.

“Just the head?” she asked.

“Minneapolis Homicide's already made a statement. They're calling him the Minnesota Shrike.” Zeller called out to them.

“Like the bird?”

“Shrike's a perching bird,” Price cut in. The rest of the team crowd around the body. “Impales mice and lizards on thorny branches and barbed wire. Rips their organs right out of their bodies, puts them in a little birdie pantry, and eats them later.”

“I can't tell whether it's sloppy - or shrewd.” Will said.

 This wasn’t done carelessly. This had intention.

“He wanted her found this way. Like he's mocking her. Or he's mocking us.” Edith moved closer to the body, past Will, kneeling down and glazing at the girl’s face. “She was meant to be discovered, just like this. An exhibition of his work.”

Crawford leaned over her. “Where did all his love go?”

Edith barely refrained from rolling her eyes. This was certainly not the work of the Shrike.

“Whoever tucked Elise Nichols into bed didn't paint this picture.” Wills says.

“He took her lungs,” Zeller said, pointing to the girl’s chest that has been ripped open. ‘He looks like he’s going to be sick’ Edith thought. “I'm pretty sure she was alive when he cut 'em out.”

Will sighed. “Our cannibal loves women. He doesn't want to destroy them. He wants to consume them, to keep some part of them inside. This girl's killer thought that she was a pig.”

Edith stood, rubbing her temple as Will walked past her, Crawford calling after him.

“You think this was a copycat?”

Will whirled around. “The cannibal who killed Elise Nichols had a place to do it and no interest in field kabuki. So, he has a house, or two, or a-a cabin something with an antler room.”

Pieces started to click into place in her head.

“He has a daughter,” Edith said. Everyone around was silent. “The same age as the other girls. Same-same hair colour, same eye colour, same height, same weight. She's an only child. She's leaving home. He can't stand the thought of losing her. She's his golden ticket.”

She began to walk away, already reaching inside her bag for her bottle, Crawford still calling after them.

“What about the copycat?”

“You know, an intelligent psychopath, particularly a sadist, is very hard to catch. There's no traceable motive, there'll be no patterns. He may never kill this way again. Have Dr Lecter draw up a psychological profile. You seemed very impressed with his opinion.” Will answered and both of them escaped the field.

This is certainly not the work of the Shrike.

 This is...a humiliation.


End file.
